by Vish Dhamija
‘Okay.’ Jay flushed like a teenager again.
***
It was past one in the morning when Jay sauntered out of Ali’s place. His car was parked away, but Bhīma flashed once and gently steered the car towards him.
‘Have you had dinner?’ Jay jumped into the front seat; something Bhīma wouldn’t have allowed in the day.
‘Jee hukum.’
‘How many times do I have to tell that you should call me Jay?’ ‘You know I can’t do that, hukum.’ Bhīma politely turned down Jay’s request and, with his eyes keenly on the road and surroundings, U-turned the car around in a single motion and zipped. This was the only real time of the day when the lack of traffic let him enjoy driving Jay’s Audi.
Before Jay could counter Bhīma’s response, his mobile rang. He looked at the display; it was the call he had always dreaded. He knew a call at this hour from the nursing home that his mother had been in for decades couldn’t be for a casual update or one to notify that the monthly bill hadn’t been paid on time. They never called. If they had called, it definitely meant something was wrong. Seriously wrong. He could calculate what it might be, but he opted not to, he decided not to open the hurting chasm before he was certain. He didn’t want to hazard a guess, and instead he took the call.
‘Jay Singh.’ His voice surprisingly sounded stable to him, not drunk.
FIVE
Swamijee. Yes that’s what I called him since I was six or seven or perhaps even eight. It’s been such a long while ago that I don’t exactly remember. I didn’t know his name; I still don’t know his name. He visited our home sometimes, but, predominantly, it was my mother who travelled to him during the daytime. As I was too young to be left alone at home, I tagged along. He lived in a decrepit jerry-built house made of baked clay with cow dung slapped on the walls and a corrugated tin roof that I feared would fall down anytime. It was always dimly lit. The temperature inside used to be baking hot and if that wasn’t enough to endure, there were a dozen or more cheap lit incense sticks that let out a profusion of smoke and the resulting stench — a fusion of cow shit and synthetic sandalwood — was nauseating, to say the least. The incense sticks were supposed to cleanse and to give the place a religious feel, which only the Swamijee might have found purifying and fragrant. On the flip side, it taught me to hold my breath for longer intervals to avoid filling my nostrils with the sickening odour.
Swamijee always wore a saffron loincloth. That’s all. He was, at all times — summers or winters — bare-chested, barelegged and barefoot; grey hair covered his entire body like a pelage. And he had probably never heard of a deodorant. He must have been in his fifties. He face was a permanent red and sunburnt, and his long, unkempt hair was tussled into a tail. He sometimes carried a small trident in his right hand to remind people that he was a holy follower of Shiva, and such had more powers than other mortals that visited him though I never saw any other soul, besides us, at his house when we visited him.
Our calls had a distinctive routine. We started late in the mornings, usually after my father left for office. My mother drove our old grey Premier Padmini from Vasant Vihar to Patparganj — a distance of less than twenty kilometres, but it took over an hour in the traffic, and as we crossed the river Yamuna the pot-holed, crowded lanes took their toll on travel. The stench was a precursor to one I’d experience only a while later at Swamijee’s place. It was for me, or anyone else who lived in posh New Delhi, another world: the topography, the housing, the edifices, the people, their minimalistic and tattered clothing, all looked alien. Blatant poverty was on display everywhere; even the few cars on the roads — the place was flooded with scooters and motorcycles and cycles and auto rickshaws and cycle-rickshaws —were rundown.
We parked quite a distance away from his hovel, as the dirt road that led to the holy shanty didn’t allow cars. I sprinted along with my mother, holding her hand, as she walked swiftly to Swamijee’s hut. She never looked up or acknowledged anyone around, not that anyone there would have known her. Swamijee never came out of his hut to greet anyone, and you only met him once you were cleansed. There was a municipal hand pump, to dispense water, right outside his dwelling and mere mortals were supposed to wash their limbs before entering his sacred shithole. Admittance into his abode was solely, bare-footed; like any footwear would soil his muddy tileless floor any further. And the stench, oh Lord, the stench. I sometimes still feel queasy when I think of that malodour. Anyway, once we were in the shack we separated, my mother and I. For the next two hours or so — that obviously seemed like a lifetime to me, every time — I was expected to wait in the outer section of the hut and read the Archie comic digests I carried. Two hours. Sometimes, I wondered if my father had any inkling about these clandestine meetings with the Swami, though everything conveyed to me it wasn’t.
If I needed water, well, there was the hand pump right outside the door, and if I needed to relieve myself, I could go behind the hut and do the job outdoors. Unsurprisingly, I was curious about the mystical adventure that transpired in the adjoining room with my mother and Swamijee alone in the dark, but I never dared to, even, peep in. And though, at the time, my puerile mind was inept at comprehending what happened in the adjacent room, as I came of age my mind drew obvious inferences; whether they were right or did I misconstrue I would never know, and never challenge or probe. But it sickened me for a long time and it even bothers me no end now sometimes. Swamijee — a man of God — and my own mother? Sheesh! An apparently palpable truth I did not want to believe. The whole ritual seemed more Mephistophelean than religious to me. But what did I know?
When my mum eventually emerged from the dark chamber I always felt she carried a guilty expression. Swamijee didn’t come out to see us off after the spiritual two-hour sessions. The return journey from Patparganj to home was equally uninteresting too with an added discomfort, as neither of us spoke on the one-hour drive home.
The most remarkable part is that Swamijee vanished from our lives the night my father was murdered. He did not come even once to console his earnest devotee — my mother — when she might have required the spiritual strength most. But as I’ve said before, I have faint reflections that someone else was present in our house the night my father got killed. And if Swamijee, indeed, had any part in offing my dad — or helping my mum in the hideous act — and had got away with it successfully, why would he even hang around in the city, forget coming to see my mum?
In my mind Swamijee was the most logical suspect.
But, of course, that Swamijee was even involved was only a conjecture on my part. My mother never uttered a word or gave anyone any indication that he was.
And I never saw Swamijee again.
SIX
‘Bhīma, did you manage to take a nap earlier today?’ Jay asked after he ended the call.
‘A couple of hours, hukum.’ ‘Can you drive all night?’
‘Jee hukum.’
‘Drive me to Jaipur then, please.’
Bhīma didn’t flinch, didn’t question, just as Jay had expected; Bhīma never questioned his boss. Jay watched that his immediate reflex was to glance at the instrument panel to see how much petrol they had left. Enough fuel. Jay could see that he was perturbed by the odd request at this unusual hour — after all he wasn’t a yokel — and Jay decided it wasn’t prudent to keep his friend in the dark for the unplanned travel.
‘My mum died.’
‘Sorry to hear that, hukum,’ Bhīma uttered, his words perhaps attempting to belie the lump in his throat. ‘Are you okay?’
If the urgency to get to Jaipur occurred bizarre to Bhīma — that Jay had never even bothered to visit the old girl in all the years that he had been with Jay — he did not ask or show.
‘I’ve dropped a bug in Vinay Kumar’s car,’ Bhīma mentioned after a few kilometres of muteness.
‘Already?’ Jay couldn’t care less for Kumar at this moment, but at least the distraction helped in taking his mind away from the pain.
<
br /> ‘I did it when he was in a meeting with you. His driver isn’t a very diligent man; he left the car unattended in the car park below. I bugged it on the inside so we’ll know where Vinay Kumar travels and who he speaks to when he’s in the car.’
‘Let me know if you hear anything.’
‘Jee Hukum.’
Silence again. The two were now on National Highway Number 8, the vein that connected New Delhi to Mumbai.
‘Could you stop for a refill please?’ Jay said, looking out of windows as the trees rushed back.
‘The petrol tank’s full, hukum.’ Bhīma glanced at the instrument panel again to confirm.
‘I need a refill, Bhīma.’ Jay attempted to feign a smile.
‘Sorry, I didn’t grasp.’
‘No worries.’
Bhīma switched on the fog lights once they hit the highway. The bright lights pierced through the smog. Minutes later he put the headlights on high and pressed the pedal. The car’s V6 did not hesitate. He crossed over into Haryana and stopped close, as close as physically possible, at the first roadside alcohol booth that apparently said it sold “Angrezi Sharaab”. Not bothering to check what Jay wanted — clearly knowing well that choice was not a luxury at this hour and place — he cut the engine, stepped out and looked around for any unwanted elements. Once satisfied that there was no one around except a stray dog who didn’t even bother to raise its neck to acknowledge him, he walked to the stall.
His eyes raced across the small display to catch anything Jay could digest. Luckily, there was one bottle of Jack Daniels gathering dust in one corner. He bought it, along with a dozen assorted cans and bottles of ice-cold colas that the sales guy had — Pepsi, Coke and Thumbs Up. He quickly paid the guy and returned to the car, opened the boot and dumped eleven of the cans into the little cooler he had there for precisely such occasions.
Jay was happy to see the bottle of Jack and a chilled can of cola. The journey would be a lot easier now he knew. And a lot faster!
‘Have you eaten anything, hukum?’
‘We’ll pick up something at the next stop.’
‘Jee hukum.’
Jay drank through whatever was left of the night. Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic, save the truckers and some buses who plied all through the night. Thankfully, there weren’t many motorists at this hour. Despite Bhīma reminding him that he needed to eat, they only stopped for a short while when Jay needed a refill from the boot till they were on the outskirts of Jaipur. Bhīma, under pretext of refuelling, drove into a petrol station that also had a café and bought an egg sandwich for Jay, which he savoured like a child.
Jaipur is one of the vertices of Indian tourism’s Golden Triangle: Delhi and Agra being the other two. Raja Man Singh built the Amber Fort in the sixteenth century. The ramparts underwent improvements and additions by successive rulers over the next two centuries. Since it was located on a hill, Jay, even in his torpor, spotted the artistic edifice built with sandstone. It was dawn as the car descended the hill into the old city. The rising sun, a shade of thick-cut marmalade, washed over the rose Pink City to bring it to its full bloom. Every building was more beautiful than the one the car left behind. Commercial activities hadn’t begun so early and all one could see were the striking pink exteriors of how the city was visualised by its founders.
Jay’s mind was, obviously, elsewhere. He had passed another night drinking and plunging into the dark nooks of his brain. The more he thought the more it hurt, but, as he had narrated to Ali, he had absolutely no control over that whatsoever.
As the car moved into the new part of the city the haphazardness, the ugliness was more than evident. That the city would develop around this utter and complete balagan might have been an illusion of some minister who must have pocketed the money at the time, and then gone out of power and it was never going to happen now. The lack of any semblance of order, that might have been promised to disguise this, exaggerated the visual chaos. Oh yes, you could even mess up something as beautiful as Jaipur if you tried.
Early birds were up and delivering milk and newspapers. The local city buses had started carting labour across the city. Jay was awake, but only just. The nebulosity fuelled by Jack had taken him a million miles away. His eyes were open but anyone observing him would surely have found them glazed like marbles in a taxidermic puppet.
‘Where do we go, hukum?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Almost seven.’
‘Check me into Rambagh Palace. I need a few hours’ sleep before we head to the hospital. You should take some rest too.’
‘Jee, hukum.’
Bhīma stopped the car in the hotel’s portico, stepped out and took Jay’s arm across his massive shoulders and assisted his inebriated boss. Anyone around would have thought he was helping an injured man; no one figured that he was stoned.
***
The duo was back in the car at eleven, having rested and breakfasted. Jay looked neat again, as Bhīma had got Jay’s spare clothes out of the car and got them ironed in the hotel. Jay sat in front as they silently drove to their destination.
The East India Company had established Jaipur Mental Hospital as an asylum in the early-nineteenth century for the detention and care of, primarily, criminal lunatics. Legend has it that the patients then were detained with chains, but times had changed. It was now a mental hospital and rehabilitation centre — practising both curative and palliative therapies — within the catchment area of the whole of Rajasthan and adjacent states of U.P., Madhya Pradesh, Haryana, Punjab and the State of Delhi. Rani Singh, Jay’s mother, had lost her mental balance after his father’s murder. After being convicted, and when it was psychiatrically established that she wasn’t mentally stable at the time of crime, she was moved to this hospital for the balance of her sentence or till she passed away. The doctors had envisaged the death a lot sooner, but the angels of death didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush, like they were bent upon making the woman atone for her sin.
The nurse at the reception looked shocked at seeing the anomalous couple: Jay and Bhīma. After the identifications they were sent to one Dr Mita Aggarwal who had been the doctor to Rani Singh for the past three years.
Bhīma stood out of the room when Jay went to see the doctor in her office. Dr Aggarwal explained that Mrs Rani Singh had had a stroke the previous afternoon and had been pronounced dead at nine last evening. She defended the hospital stating that the patient had never complained of any chest pain before the day.
‘Did she ever say anything?’
‘She didn’t speak a single word in the last three years that I had treated her.’
Jay knew it, and regretted even asking the question. His mother had never uttered a word since the incident. Psychiatrists had adjudged she had lost her mind and speech due to the shock, and they believed she would never get either back as there wasn’t any effort or will on her part to come out of the condition. That was the principal reason he had stopped visiting her. Notwithstanding the shame of being the son of a murderer, he visited her in early years to uncover if she would give some indication, some hint about the facts of that ignoble night, some sequence of events or the reasons for the crime. When he didn’t succeed in making her talk or reveal anything even after a few years of incessant probing, he simply gave up. Absolutely broke, he couldn’t afford to follow a trail that wasn’t there. He, however, only gave up coming to see her physically. Call it good, bad, compassionate, conceited or, maybe, imperious, but he found it too painful to see someone he loved suffer in silence. But he was the only living family and hence, rightfully, he was the only one to be contacted when the time came. The truth, he gathered, was buried forever now. The pain he had so fervently wished to end would hurt him till he met his end. God’s will.
‘Would you like us to cremate her or would you like to take the body, Mr Singh?’ Dr Aggarwal broke his agonizing reverie.
‘Could I see her?’
‘Of course. After we
spoke to you we decided to postpone the post-mortem till you saw her one last time. Follow me.’ She got up and walked out of her office to take Jay to his mother’s room.
Jay followed her. Bhīma followed Jay. He had, of course, taken in the environment and checked the security.
As they walked Jay could feel Bhīma’s eyes piercing his cranium. He wondered what could the big man be thinking about him? Did he understand the torment, of having one’s mother in a mental hospital? They walked along the corridor, took the elevator to the third floor and turned right when they got there. Dr Aggarwal stopped outside the fourth room on the right and pointed at it.
‘She’s in there, Mr Singh. When you’re through, please come back to my office.’
‘Thank you, doctor.’
Thankfully, Bhīma looked the other way to avoid the embarrassment of sighting a tear in Jay’s eyes. He paused outside the door, which Jay appreciated: giving the son a final time with his mother.
Every time Jay had visited his mother in the hospital before, he had only looked into her vacant eyes. He could see she wasn’t there; she was living, but she was hardly alive. But, today, a paroxysm of guilt hit him in the gut. Maybe he could have done more if he hadn’t loathed her deliberate silence. Maybe… Memories fused into one another, losing the chronology as he saw her at peace finally. Yes, there had been some good times before his father lost money and sense, but that had been long before the incident even.
He looked at her body now. Her skin had calloused like leather. Dead.
‘Why don’t you speak to me Mum? Why didn’t you want to tell me who it was you tried to save?’ Jay stared at her till his eyes welled up and he realised he was talking to the corpse that had once been his mother, but not anymore. He nevertheless continued to stare at her and make conversation like she might respond. He could never comprehend who abandoned whom? Did his mum abandon him for someone he only suspected? Or did he abandon her because she wouldn’t divulge the truth? What if the truth wasn’t what he had construed in his mind, after all? Too late Jay Singh, useless navel-gazing never calmed the heart.